Wintercaerig
by CaptAcorn
Summary: Story ten from the Home series! Tom visits his son during his first year at grad school, and is forced to remember a time he'd rather not. He hopes that this time, he can do something to help. Contains mentions of depression and self-harm.


**a/n** : This story has references to depression, self-harm, and the (brilliant) season 5 episode, _Extreme Ris_ k. Please see acknowledgements for the series under the first story, **Fresh Start**. For your convenience, here are the previous stories:

1\. Fresh Start

2\. Running to the End

3\. Growing Pains

4\. Grounded

5\. Preferences

6\. Release

7\. Falling

8\. Support System

9\. The Hard Way Down

* * *

Tom wandered amongst the high top tables distributed around the sculpture gallery, occasionally adjusting a peony or wiping a tablecloth free of imaginary crumbs. The room was decked out for the cocktail hour that would take place before the more formal reception outside in the Court of Honor. Some prankster — it was almost certainly his daughter — had even tucked a small rose into the outstretched hand of Saint John the Baptist. Tom slipped the flower free of the sculpture before one of the docents noticed. Probably best if they didn't get kicked out before the wedding even started.

Given the setting, he couldn't help but reflect on his own wedding to B'Elanna — dressed in slightly singed flight suits, a bemused Janeway reading the standard ceremony off a PADD with no one else but Chakotay and Harry in attendance. Today's event was going to be rather more elaborate. It really wasn't what either groom had had in mind, but Joe, the big softie, had let his grandmother have considerable input during the planning — so the Legion of Honor in San Francisco it was.

The ceremony was supposed to begin in five minutes, but, as was the way of these things, nearly everyone was running behind. Tom, on the other hand, had been ready for nearly an hour, helping to seat the guests, directing the musicians on where to set up, plying the caterers for a preview of the hors d'oeuvres — anything to keep busy. He regarded the statue of three men at the top of the gallery: _The Three Shades_ , the placard read. Apparently, it was originally conceived as part of a work called _The Gates of Hell_. _Cheery stuff for a wedding_ , Tom considered with a frown.

A familiar voice broke the silence of the room. "What the hell are you wearing?"

Tom turned and greeted Harry Kim with a broad smile. "It's a tuxedo," he said, gesturing at his outfit. "Miral said it makes me look like James Bond."

Harry laughed as he crossed the gallery and wrapped his friend in a bear hug. "She must need something then. Clearly she's buttering you up."

"Probably." Tom chuckled as they released each other. "Joe's going to be thrilled you made it. Where's Ruby?"

Harry gave him a pained smile. "Risa, I think? We ended things last week."

"Sorry, buddy," Tom said, giving his friend a sympathetic squeeze on the shoulder.

They did the standard catch-up — Tom gave him quick updates on his family and the latest ship he and B'Elanna had designed, Harry told him about the year-long mission he'd left for right after Miral and Shovar's wedding. "Oh," Harry said after a pause, as if he'd almost forgotten, "and the 'Fleet offered me another promotion. Vice Admiral. I'd get to run the whole Science Division."

"You taking it?" Tom asked, already knowing the answer.

"I'd said I'd give it some thought. But, probably not, no. I'm still not ready to ride a desk."

Tom gazed out the gallery doors into the vestibule, where a few last minute guests were passing through to get to the ceremony. He could hear the quartet play the first faint notes of a concerto he couldn't identify. Aatto gave him a nervous smile from where he stood in the corner of the vestibule with his parents, shifting his tall, lean frame from foot to foot. Tom gave him what he hoped was an encouraging wave.

"You OK?" Harry asked. "You're a little quiet."

Tom gave his friend a brief smile. "Sure. I'll just feel better when this show gets on the road."

Harry stood next to him and looked over to where Aatto was standing. "You guys like Aatto, right? Or is Joe getting cold feet?"

"Aatto's great. And they both couldn't be more excited about getting married." Tom twisted his own wedding band around his finger. "There was just a time when I didn't think I'd ever see this: Joe happy and healthy. I can't help but feel like something could still go wrong."

"Has Joe been sick?" Harry asked. "You never said anything."

Tom didn't miss the hurt in Harry's tone. He was Joe's godfather, after all, and had been 'Uncle Harry' since the kids spoke their first words. But Tom had never felt that it was his story to tell. "Not exactly. Not physically anyway. And he's fine now — he's been fine for years. But no one ever tells you, when you first have a kid — how the worry never stops. You think that when the baby's a little older, when they can walk, or talk, or once they're off at school — you think that's when you'll finally feel safe. That you'll be able to let go a bit. But old worries just get replaced by new ones."

"Wow," Harry said with a concerned smile. "Who knew you would be such a downer at weddings?"

Tom laughed. "Excellent point, Harry. I'm in imminent danger of losing my reputation as life of the party." A flash of movement caught his eye and he pointed. "There they are."

B'Elanna, Miral, and Joe had just entered the vestibule. B'Elanna headed out to the Court to tell let the musicians and the celebrant they were ready to start; Miral immediately clicked across the marble tiles to embrace Aatto in a welcoming hug. But Joe stood still, his face serious, as his eyes moved over the space.

Tom stepped away from Harry and called his son's name. Joe looked up to meet his father's eyes and smiled.

/=\

 _Five years earlier…_

"No," B'Elanna said from the monitor. "I haven't talked to him since the last time he called home."

It was just past eleven at night in San Diego but early morning where B'Elanna was on Vulcan. She was presenting a paper at a conference, then staying for another month to give a series of guest lectures at the Science Academy. Tom stifled a yawn as B'Elanna continued.

"Check with Miral — she's probably heard from him. Either way, I wouldn't worry too much about it. You know how it is when he gets fixated on something. Remember when he was on the tear about early twenty-first century politics? He didn't come out of his room for anything but meals."

Tom leaned back in his chair and nodded. "You're probably right. But this letter from his school is so weird. And even when he doesn't call me back, he'll usually at least send me a text message. Acknowledge that he's still alive and breathing."

B'Elanna smirked. "Who'd have thought, when I first got pregnant, that _you_ would be the worrywart parent? He's fine, Tom."

"OK, OK," Tom said, grinning back at her. "I'll try to stop worrying. How's everything on Vulcan?"

She rolled her eyes. "Once you get past the usual condescension, great. It's nice to be too warm, for a change. Oh, and Tuvok says hi."

"Hi?"

"OK," B'Elanna conceded. "It was more like 'Please also express my greetings and well-wishes to Mr. Paris,' but close enough."

B'Elanna told him about a few new propulsion theories the Vulcans were working on; Tom promised her he wouldn't burn the house down while she was gone. As he ended the call, he knew his wife was almost certainly right. Their youngest did have a tendency to get obsessed when he found a new topic of interest. ("I wonder where he gets that from," B'Elanna had remarked more than once.) Off at his first year of grad school in Ireland, Joe probably was just caught up in a new class, or he'd discovered some thousand-year-old book in the library. There was no reason for Tom to think that there was something wrong.

Except the letter. It had come yesterday, from the administrative office at Trinity College, and had been addressed to Joe. Tom had made a good faith effort to contact his son, but when he'd heard nothing, he opened it himself — in case it was urgent.

What it was, was confusing. The short missive requested that Joe send the college updated contact information since they'd been unsuccessful in reaching him, and that he needed to contact his advisor about 'the status of his education.' It didn't make any sense. When Tom had last heard from Joe, not even a week ago, the text messages his son had sent had been brief, but in no way concerning. He'd said things were fine with his studies and certainly hadn't mentioned moving or changing his contact info. Why was he ignoring the school's calls?

Tom frowned at the darkened screen of his monitor. B'Elanna had a point — Joe often told Miral things he didn't share with his parents. Maybe he'd been talking to his sister. Tom should definitely check in with her first, before he assumed there was a real problem.

But, he considered, his hand hovering over the button that would start a new message — Miral's ship was pretty deep in the Beta Quadrant. It would take hours for a message to get to her on subspace, and it was nearly impossible to set up an unscheduled call. He might not hear back from her until tomorrow — or even later. On the other hand, he could get a late night transport to Dublin — it would be morning there, and Tom could check in with Joe before his classes even began. Maybe they could grab some breakfast. Even if he was busy, he still had to eat.

He looked down at the pile of black and white fur sleeping at his feet. "Hey Bess," he said. The young Border Collie immediately perked up, her ears erect. "How do you feel about a trip to Ireland?"

Not even an hour later, Tom and Bess materialized on the transporter pad of the Grand Canal Dock station in Dublin. He nodded in greeting at the transport operator and moved to exit the station. Both dog and human shivered when they reach the outdoors, neither prepared for the chill of an overcast December morning in Dublin. "At least it's not snowing, Bess," Tom remarked, squinting at the sky. "We'll warm up on our walk."

It was more of a stroll than a walk, Tom not being in any particular rush. He didn't want to wake Joe up if he didn't have an early class. It was a beautiful city, besides, much of it over a thousand years old. It was no surprise that Joe had wanted to study history here. Tom smiled as he ambled down the quaint streets, almost forgetting it would be well past his bedtime if he were still at home. He and Bess skirted the edge of the Trinity campus, gave the Molly Malone statue a quick nod and grin, and passed through cobblestone streets of Temple Bar as they made their way to Joe's attic apartment on Aungier Street.

It was eight-thirty when they reached their destination — late enough that Joe should be up, but probably not so late that he'd have already rushed off to class. Tom rang the buzzer at the entrance, but there was no response. "Hmm," he said to Bess as she looked up at him expectantly. "We might need to make our way back to Trinity. See if he's there already."

Before they could leave the stoop, however, a young human woman mounted the front steps and didn't seem to notice or care when Tom slipped in behind her. He and Bess took the stairs to the top floor — Joe's one-bedroom was the only one up there. He knocked as a matter of course, but when he heard no movement inside, he typed in the code Joe had given him three months ago when he'd moved in.

The first thing that hit Tom was the smell. The air was heavy with the acrid scent of old food, unwashed clothes, body odor. Bess strained forward, her nose being more sensitive but much less discerning. Only a few small slivers of light made it through the drawn curtains. Tom squinted into the dark space.

"Computer, lights," he said, to no avail. He dropped Bess' leash and she dashed inside, jamming her snout into the various nondescript lumps scattered about the floor. "Joe?" Tom called, unnecessarily. Clearly the place was empty. He wondered when the last time his son was even here. Maybe he was involved with someone? Maybe that's what had him so preoccupied?

Tom made it to one of the east-facing windows, after stubbing his toe on the edge of the couch and stumbling over a balled up sweater. He pulled the closest curtain open and the morning sun battling the clouds to cast a few pale rays into the room. Not that he really needed confirmation, but the place was a mess. Clothes, half-emptied crates, dirty dishes and glasses. He really needed to track Joe down — this wasn't like him at all. Miral was the only real slob in the family. Joe and B'Elanna might get distracted, forget to put their clothes in the 'fresher or leave the occasional dish behind — but this level of squalor was unheard of for his youngest.

As Tom scanned the eaved room in search of the environmental control panel, he saw Bess dart into the bedroom. He was just bending over to pick up his first bit of detritus when he heard a muffled voice.

"Get off, Bess! God. What are you even doing here?"

"Joe?" Tom said, leaving the bowl of moldy berries where he'd found it on the floor. "Are you in there?"

Tom picked his way across the laundry covered floor and poked his head through the bedroom door. The curtains were drawn in here as well, but their material was thin and admitted a weak light, making the space appear in grayscale. Lying facedown on the bed was Joe, a pile of blankets mounded around him and an enthusiastic Border Collie pawing at his head.

"Joe? What's going on? I haven't smelled anything this bad since my Academy days." Tom stepped over a small stack of books and PADDs as he made his way to the windows. "Your environmental controls working OK?"

Joe didn't turn to look at him, but only continued to bat futilely at Bess, who was bound and determined to lick his face. "It's been down a few days. I couldn't figure out how to fix it."

Tom leaned over the bed and pulled at Bess' collar until she came got down. "Leave him alone, girl." He turned back to the windows and pulled the curtains open. It didn't help much, as an ominous clump of dark clouds had moved in over the city. "You have to call the super, buddy. It's not going to magically fix itself. I'll take a look at it for you — so I can tell Mom what's wrong when I call her for help." He grinned at his joke, but Joe stayed silent.

An uneasy feeling settled over him. Joe had never been known for being talkative, but it had always come from a place of introversion, not sullenness. You might have to call him a dozen times to get his attention, but when you finally got it, he'd look up with a sweet, if somewhat vague smile, wondering why you looked so annoyed. Not returning calls, ignoring Tom ringing his door, that fact he hadn't even looked up from the bed — none of this was right.

Tom sat on edge of the bed, scratching at Joe's shoulder. "You OK? Are you getting sick?"

"No," Joe said into his pillow. "Just tired. Haven't been sleeping well lately."

"What time do you have to be on campus?"

Joe said nothing.

"Joe?" Tom asked again, feeling a flash of annoyance. "Do you have class today?"

"I don't have anything today," Joe said. Still he didn't move. "Why are you here?"

"You haven't returned any of my calls." Tom rose and began to tidy the room. He couldn't stand the clutter another minute. "The university sent a letter — said you've been ignoring them, too. You're supposed to meet with your advisor. I know how caught up you get in things, Joe, but you can't just forget your other responsibilities because you've got a new hobby, or whatever it is. I can tell you firsthand — it doesn't go over well." He threw the pile of clothes he'd gathered into the 'fresher and opened the curtains of the other window. "You're twenty-two now. You need to start taking care of this stuff on your own, not wait for me or Mom to tell you to do it."

"Sorry."

"I don't want an apology. I want you to get your act together." Tom sighed at Joe's continued lack of response. This conversation wasn't going anywhere. Clearly his son needed a little kick in the ass. "I'll make you a deal. I'll clean this place up, take a look at your environmental controls. I'll even make you breakfast. All you have to do is get up and start going through your comms — figure out what you need to get done today and prioritize the rest of it." Tom's nose wrinkled. "Scratch that — first thing is take a shower."

"I'm really tired," Joe said, still not moving. "Maybe in a little while."

"I'm tired, too," Tom snapped. "You know it's after midnight in California? I'm the one that should be in bed right now. But instead I'm here picking up after you — so you're going to get up and do what I say. Now."

Finally, movement! His son pushed himself to sitting, moving so slowly it was like he was underwater. _I'll take it_ , Tom thought. "Thank you. Now go shower."

It didn't take long to load the clothes and dishes in the appropriate 'freshers, or even to fix the environmental controls (they only needed a simple reset). But still, it should have taken even less time to take a sonic shower and throw on some clean clothes. _If he has any left…_ The apartment now reasonably clean and smelling far less offensive, Tom moved onto replicating the ingredients for Joe's favorite breakfast — French toast. Joe still hadn't emerged from the bathroom.

As the challah appeared in the replicator, Tom heard a ping. It was from Joe's comm device, which Tom had found hidden in the couch cushions a few minutes ago. He picked it up. _It's not spying to just see who's calling_ , he reasoned, and read the screen.

It was a subspace message, not a call. It was from Miral.

Tom knew very well that he should not open up the message. He shouldn't activate the comm at all. He had done what he intended — checked to see if the call was urgent — and he should just put it back down and wait for Joe to come out of the bathroom.

But his behavior was so odd. Tom's earlier, irritated comments aside, Joe wasn't really in the habit of shirking his responsibilities. Procrastinate, sure. And he did get distracted at times. But this level of thoughtlessness was not Joe at all. He was acting like a sullen teenager — except he hadn't acted like this even when he _was_ a teenager.

Tom opened the message. He didn't have to read far.

 _Joe?! Why didn't you call like we planned? What the hell is going on with you? I'm getting worried._

Tom's stomach sank. Joe and Miral were very close, had been since Joe was old enough to toddle after her and cry "Meewee!" if she moved too fast for him to keep up. She was sometimes the only one he would talk to, when he'd been having trouble at school or with a friend. If Joe was even avoiding her…

Figuring he was already in this deep, Tom flipped to the list of missed calls and unopened messages. There were dozens — Tom, B'Elanna, grandparents, the dean's office, names Tom recognized as friends of Joe's from high school and UCLA. Tom turned to stare at the door of the bathroom from which Joe still had yet to leave.

 _Then how come it's impossible to have a conversation with you?_

 _I'm sorry._

 _I don't want an apology. I want an explanation._

 _Tom, I'm tired._

 _Asleep is more like it._

By the time Joe emerged, Tom was whipping together eggs with milk and vanilla. Bess jumped up from her begging spot by the stove to greet the new arrival. "I'm making French toast," Tom said. "I can fry up some bacon, too, if you want. Or sausage."

A chair scraped across the floor followed by the dull thud of his son falling into the seat. "I'm not that hungry," Joe mumbled. "Don't go to any trouble."

"I don't mind."

Tom worked in silence, no sound in the kitchen other than the sizzle of butter hitting the pan. He wanted to give Joe a chance to open up in his own time and make the first move. He plated the first round of toast, tossing some blueberries and a little powdered sugar on top, and turned to the table.

Where Joe was staring at his comm device.

 _Well, that should get reaction out of him, if nothing else._

"You've been reading my messages?" Joe's voice was ice cold.

"I didn't feel like I had much choice," Tom replied, his voice even. He put the plate down in front of Joe and sat across from him.

"You didn't have a choice other than to invade my privacy?"

Underneath the concern for Joe and his guilt that, perhaps, he hadn't done the right thing, Tom marveled at how much his son could sound like his mother. "There's obviously something wrong, and it's even more obvious that you aren't going to volunteer anything. So yeah, I guess I decided your privacy was less important than your well-being."

"This is ridiculous!" Joe ranted, standing up from the table so suddenly that he knocked it hard into his father's stomach. Bess startled and began to pace the small room. "You show up here, unannounced and uninvited, because why? Because I forgot to return a few phone calls? God, Dad. Back off! I'm an adult now. I don't need to check in with Mommy and Daddy every day!"

Tom pushed the table out a few centimeters to get a little breathing room, but didn't get up from his chair. He called Bess to him with snap of his fingers and massaged her ears, trying to keep himself calm as well as the anxious collie. "I came because I was worried about you," he said. "Because even adults need help sometimes."

"I don't need any help," Joe growled. "I don't need you to clean up, or tell me to call the dean, and I don't need any fucking breakfast!" He swept his hand across the small table, knocking the full plate to the floor with a crash. Beneath Tom's fingers, Bess started to tremble.

"Sure," Tom said, having to work to keep his voice steady. "You're acting exactly like yourself. Not a thing wrong with you."

Why hadn't Tom known? How could have let his child be alone and in pain for so long? _I'm so sorry, buddy._

Joe was just staring at the shards of broken plate on the floor, where they mixed with the syrup and berries, and eggy bread. "I'm sorry." Unlike the muffled, dull apology in the bedroom, this time Tom could hear the sincerity and fear in his son's voice.

"Good thing I fixed the environmental controls," Tom said lightly as he bent to start picking up bits of plate. Joe dropped down to help him, but Tom waved him off. "I'll get it. I don't want you to cut yourself. Why don't you take Bess into the other room? Get her out of the way."

Tom recycled what he could and left the rest for the cleaning system to take care of. He took his time washing his hands before he headed into the small sitting room. Joe and Bess were together on the couch, the collie draped across him, clearly pleased one of her favorite people had finally settled down enough to provide her a lap. Joe's shoulders sagged and his chin was dropped to his chest, making him look far younger and smaller than he was.

A quick scan of the small sitting room showed Tom that he'd already done a fairly thorough job of straightening up. Too bad, really — Tom would have liked something to do with his hands during this conversation. He rubbed his palms briefly on the front of his thighs before recalling the large pile of laundry sitting in the bedroom 'fresher. He grabbed the clothes and sat himself on the opposite end of the couch from Joe, folding each item with excessive care. "Talk to me, buddy," Tom said to a dark red t-shirt. "What's going on?"

Joe shrugged. "Nothing."

Patience was what the situation called for. Tom knew this. He knew that pushing was the exact wrong thing to do, that he had to just let Joe talk in his own time, that this wasn't something Tom could just sweep in and fix — not like a dirty apartment or a busted console. He worried the inside of his cheek, waiting and dreading for Joe to break the silence.

"I mean…" Joe said after a long, long while. "I mean, nothing is going on. As in, school, or friends, or… anything. Everything is just wrong. I can't seem to make anything work here."

The dam broke. Joe confessed that from the first week, he'd realized his graduate program was like nothing he'd tackled before. Everyone else seemed smarter, more accomplished, more well-read. The professor he'd hoped would be a mentor seemed to think all his ideas were pedestrian, he hadn't made any connections with his fellow students, all his friends from undergrad seemed to be thriving in their jobs and programs. "Even the weather is terrible here. I don't know why I thought I could do this. I'm so stupid. I've ruined all of it."

"Hey," Tom said, putting down a pair of socks and placing a hand on Joe's knee. "It's only been a few months. You just haven't found your footing yet. You haven't ruined anything."

"You don't understand," Joe mumbled, pulling his leg from Tom's hand and half burying his face into Bess' ruff. "I haven't been to class in three weeks. I've already missed the deadlines on two papers. I have an exam tomorrow and I haven't even opened the book. I'm letting everyone down. I'm letting you and Mom down."

"No you haven't, Joe. Mom and I don't— "

"What am I going to do with my life?" Joe choked out, as if Tom hadn't spoken. "I don't have any skills, or training. I've wasted all this time studying and for what? It's all been for nothing. I'm nothing. I just wish I… " He trailed off and turned his face away.

Joe's unspoken thought scared Tom more than the Kazon, the Hirogen, and the Borg put together. "Joe," he said, thinking back to so many years ago, and what his sweet boy's mother had once done to herself on the holodeck. "Have you been hurting yourself at all?"

Joe shook his head, still not looking at him, and Tom felt a tiny pulse of relief. But that small bit of hope — that maybe this time he wouldn't be an oblivious and helpless bystander, that maybe his son could accept help in a way his mother had once not been able to — didn't change the fact that Tom felt completely out of his depth. He wished B'Elanna were here right now, instead of him. But maybe she could be, in a small way.

"A long time ago," Tom began, keeping close watch of his son out of the corner of his eye, "your mom went through something similar."

Joe did nothing to indicate he was listening, but he didn't get up, either, so Tom continued.

"It all started… " Tom stopped. Now wasn't really the time to bring up the Dominion War and the slaughter of B'Elanna's former comrades. He tried again. "Well, it doesn't matter why it started. I think something else would have triggered it eventually, if it hadn't been the Maquis, but… the point is, there was a time when she felt hopeless, and alone, and like nothing would ever feel right again. But it didn't last forever, Joe. She got help, and she got better, and you can, too. I promise. We'll help you."

It was a long time before Joe spoke again. Tom folded and refolded the pile of laundry twice before another word was said.

"You know how you asked me if I've been hurting myself?"

Tom swallowed hard. "Yeah."

"I haven't," his son said in a small voice. "But… sometimes I want to."

Tom moved then, pulling Bess off the couch and folding his son's tall frame into his arms. "Listen to me: Mom and I, and Miral — we all love you, OK? We're so proud of who you are and nothing you say or do, or don't do, is ever going to change that. Things are going to get better."

"I don't know how to fix any of this, Dad," Joe whispered into his shoulder.

"I don't know yet, either, but we're going to figure it out." Tom kissed the top of his son's head. "We'll figure it out."

/=\

It hadn't been easy, or quick, but they had, eventually, figured it out. Tom got Joe a medical leave from Trinity for the rest of the academic year and took him home to California. It had taken regular counseling and a few tries to figure out the best medical treatments for him, but, after six months, Joe was itching to be on his own again. The following June, he headed back to Dublin to start some independent study before re-starting his program full-time in the fall.

Tom had completely embarrassed himself at the transport station.

"Let him go, Tom," B'Elanna had said, pulling at her husband's arm as he hugged their son again, "He's going to miss his beam out."

"I'll be fine, Dad, really," Joe reassured him, for perhaps the tenth or eleventh time that morning. "And if I'm not, I know who to call."

"Your counselor," B'Elanna said with a smirk. "Apparently your father is an emotional wreck."

Tom had glared at her, but he guessed much of the effect was lost given he was wiping tears from his eyes at the same time.

There had been a few bumps in the road, a few late-night calls and last minute, unplanned trips to Dublin, but Joe had been fine, more or less. He found a professor that he worked well with, he made some friends, he met Aatto. And now they were getting married.

Tom took his place on Joe's right side and B'Elanna on Joe's left and they readied themselves to follow Aatto and his parents down the aisle. "This time, try to keep it together until after the ceremony, Tom," B'Elanna whispered. "You don't want to distract everyone from the grooms." At Miral's wedding, B'Elanna had been subjected to much interrogation from some of Shovar's elderly relations. They'd hadn't had much exposure to humans before and expressed great concern for Tom, repeatedly asking B'Elanna what was wrong with her mate's eyes and was it contagious?

Tom gave his wife a dark look, then nudged Joe with his elbow. "You ready, buddy?"

"More than," Joe said with a smile and a quick kiss for each of his parents. "Thanks, you guys. For everything. I love you."

"You're killing me here!" Tom blinked his eyes rapidly and gave them a quick swipe as Joe's musical cue began. He straightened his shoulders and gave Joe's arm a tender squeeze. "Let's go get you married."

 **The End**

* * *

Coming next week! **Coming to Terms**


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